


hell is a talking type

by snipsnap



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aaron Hotchner Needs a Hug, Gen, Hotch is bi or panromantic ace and i WILL DIE ON THIS HILL, Hotch-centric, Past Child Abuse, as a treat, maybe ill put a little slash in here, no beta we die like my potential, this is really just my attempt at angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snipsnap/pseuds/snipsnap
Summary: Hotchner wasn’t quite sure when he stopped being Aaron.
Relationships: The BAU Team & Aaron Hotchner
Comments: 28
Kudos: 58





	1. aaron is an idiot. what else is new??

**Author's Note:**

> title from Dinner and Diatribes by hozier
> 
> somehow the dark-haired, emotionally repressed, traumatized white boy ended up being my favorite. again. sigh. so i started to write some hotch angst and let it take me where it took me.  
> you can probably tell how much i like melodrama. enjoy :)
> 
> there's some briefly mentioned implied rape/noncon so be warned
> 
> this is my first Ao3 fic

Hotchner wasn’t quite sure when he stopped being Aaron. Maybe it was when Hayley finally left. Or maybe it was when Hayley died. Maybe it was the first time he killed. Maybe it was the first time his father took out the belt, or maybe it was when he found the man on the floor of his studio, his brain dripping from the bookshelves and a gun by his hand. It didn’t matter. Whenever the year, whatever the reason, Aaron was gone. And Hotch didn’t know how to mourn him.

He didn’t know much at all, these days. Time was blurring into maintenance, details that he let slip by. The wins he used to take pride in meant nothing. It was just another day, another case. Another day, another victim. Another day, another life he was too late to save. 

_Your fault. She’s dead because of you._

So he threw himself into his work. Late hours, early mornings, sleeping in his chair at the office. Forgetting to eat for days on end before passing out on his desk, then pushing himself twice as hard to make up for the time he missed.

_~~“Where were you!? You didn’t call.”~~ ~~“I miss you, daddy.”~~ Your fault. He hates you for it, hates you. What kind of hero are you? An absent father, always catching the bad guys, too late the one time it really mattered. _

The concern of his teammates was met with blank stares and a set jaw. Garcia told him once about the therapy she was taking, not-so-subtly hinting that he should get some. He told her that her business was with the computers, not people, and to never try to tell him how to handle his personal matters again. She didn’t bring it up after that. It didn’t make him feel better.

Exhaustion was the only thing he really registered. Down to his bones, it permeated everything he touched. Bright colors dimmed until he could hardly tell what was red and what was green. What was blood, and what was ink on his fingers after a long day of writing. Coffee tasted bitter but weak. The shiny black leather on his seat cushion wore away to a cracked, tired-looking grey. Most days, as he slogged through work, all he wanted was to lay his head down to sleep and never wake back up.

Hayley. Hayley would know what to do. She would know just what to say, just how to touch him to make him fall apart in a way that she could put back together again.

But that was his whole problem, wasn’t it? That was why she left him. He was always expecting her to mend his broken pieces, but never did he notice when she started to crack. Hadn’t Reid, the resident genius, put it clearly out there? A classic, textbook narcissist. That’s what he was. He needed to apologize to Hayley. She didn’t deserve to have to put up with him for so long. He should call her, say hi to Jack, let her know--

_You killed her. She’s dead because of your incompetence._

Hotch struggled to breathe. Red, there was red all over, she was lying on the ground with a hole in her neck, asking him why, why wasn’t he fast enough, why wasn’t he good enough, and Foyet’s face was caving in beneath his fists, so much red, red, all his fault _why don’t you stand up, you coward? Too much of a girl to face me? So girly, maybe I should fuck you like one, huh? I wouldn’t have to do this if you were good, if you were a good little boy who didn’t tell the cops I was hitting you. What, did you think they’d believe you? Me, against your word? What were you thinking? You’re a disgrace. I’ll have to hurt your mother too, now, you know, and it's all **your**_ **fault, Aaron.** You killed her, you killed her, red red red everywhere the gun was in his hands and she was looking at him with shock. I loved you, she mouths, before his finger pulls the trigger and she crumples and he tries to scream, tries to scream her name, Hayley! HAYLEY!

Someone grabbed his shoulder and he shot awake, grabbing his gun on pure instinct and clicking off the safety in one fluid motion as he fell sideways off his chair. He pointed the gun in his assailant’s eyes, trying to blink the crust of sleep out of his own so he could see their face. Their mouth was moving, but through the blood pounding in his ears, he could barely make out any sound.

“...otch! Aaron, it’s okay, you’re safe, it’s me.”

_Derek._

It was just Morgan, hands held out in front of him in a placating gesture. Hotch let himself drop the rest of the way to the ground, the pistol falling from his grip.

“Morgan,” he breathed, relief flooding his veins, pushing the adrenaline out.

He sat up gingerly, trying to keep the world from spinning around him. He pressed a hand to his forehead. His head was pounding.

His forehead felt wet. He caught sight of the smear of blood on his hand and a wave of revulsion crashed through him. He was bleeding. Foyet's blood on his hands, Hayley's blood, or was it _Jack's?_ Was-

No. He sucked in a breath. It was just ink.

“What….” he croaked. “What time is it?”

Morgan regarded him in silence for a moment, that same look on his face that he always got.

“It’s almost midnight, man.” he said finally. “You gotta go home.”

Hotch nodded, and struggled to his feet, leaning on the desk for support. The world had been spinning when he was sitting, but standing up it was ten times worse. His vision clouded over with white and and his legs almost gave way again. Somehow, he managed to stay upright, taking deep breaths until the world’s violent rocking stopped. He straightened after a moment, grabbed his computer, and strode out the door, leaving Morgan staring after him.

Morgan caught him just before he reached the bullpen. “Hey,” he said, putting a hand on Hotch’s shoulder. “You alright?”

Hotch sighed, but stopped walking and turned to his concerned friend.

_Friend? Were they even friends? Or had he managed to push Derek out just like everyone else?_

“What did I say?” he asked shortly.

“Huh?”

“Well, clearly, I said something that concerned you while I was asleep.”

“What? No,” Morgan frowned. “You didn’t say anything. Just thrashed around a bit. But we’re all worried about you. You haven’t slept for the past two days and the day before that you slept in your office. I haven’t seen you eat once. What’s going on with you?”

Hotch stared at him for a moment, forcing himself not to let the fresh wave of disorientation show. “I don’t believe my personal matters are of consequence to you.”

Morgan squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, stepping closer, the way he always did when expecting a fight. “They’re _of consequence_ to me if your mental state is affecting your ability to work with the team!” he challenged.

Morgan was right, of course, he thought, as he fought to see past the white spots in his vision. Hotch’s carelessness and... lack of focus when after an unsub was going to keep costing them lives. He needed to… he needed to pull himself together. His defensive front was crumbling around him and it was dangerous. He had to fix this. Somehow. He knew there were some over-the-counter pills that were meant for focus… He could use those to fix this, maybe, since he was clearly too invalid and pathetic to function on his own, or--

“Hotch,” Morgan’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. His gaze had softened. “Look, man, I know you’re going through a lot after Foyet. The team is here for you. We’ve all lost someone, alright? You can talk to us. If you need more time off, we’re more than happy to pick up your slack.”

Hotch nodded. “Yeah,” he said simply, unable to muster up the energy for either gratitude or a rebuke.

He and Morgan stood above the bullpen for another breath, then Hotch turned and continued his way out without another word. He could practically see Morgan shaking his head and giving a disappointed sigh, even with his back turned. Disappointed, just like every other person in his life. Disappointed or dead. 

_Oh, Aaron, did you really think people would like you enough to get you out of here? All you are is a mistake. Your mother doesn’t even love you anymore. If she did, would she be letting me do this? No. You disappointed her, Aaron. You're pathetic. She hates you._

His father’s voice in his head was so clear that he barely stopped himself from glancing around for the source, drawing in a sharp breath and choking on it. Immediately, he doubled over in a violent coughing fit. His thin body shook with what felt like dry sandpaper to his throat. He hardly registered Morgan calling out his name. With no surface to cling onto for balance, Hotch was forced to kneel on the floor, and with each cough that wracked his body, the room grew a little bit fuzzier. Morgan’s concerned face in front of his own faded in and out of focus, until there was a sharp pain on the back of his head and the world dissolved into nothing.

_Distantly, Aaron could hear yelling. The ringing in his ears made it impossible to make out the words, but somehow he knew that the voices were yelling about him. He opened his eyes, forcing them to adjust to the light, and concentrated._

__

__

_“You’re going to kill him!”_

__

__

_“So you care about that now, huh?”_

__

__

_“How dare you! I cook all your meals. I do all your laundry. I do everything for you, and you--!”_

__

__

_A thud. His mother cried out._

__

__

_“I LOVE AARON! You sick son of a bitch, you can’t--”_

__

__

_A smack, and a small shriek._

__

__

_“SHUT THE HELL UP!”_

_Another thud, a sob, and the horrible sound of fist meeting soft flesh._

_Aaron’s eyes widened. He had to get out there to protect her. He stumbled to his feet, his beaten body screaming with every step, and practically threw himself at the door. It wouldn’t budge. He opened his mouth to yell for the man to stop, but nothing came out. He slammed his hand against the thick wood and panted, trying as hard as he could to make a single sound, but he couldn’t. He reached up and grasped at his bruised throat, frantically mouthing words, panic overtaking his veins,_

and he awoke, thrashing and tangling his legs in the sheets, to the sound of rapid beeping. For a few moments, he gasped for breath, heart pounding wildly, hardly even taking in his surroundings, though he seemed to be in a hospital. Before he could compose himself, and before he could rip the IV out of his arm, the door at the end of the sterile white room flew open with a bang. Hotch visibly flinched. In the doorway stood a woman who was clearly his doctor. Behind her, peeking through the gap in the door, stood a frantic Penelope Garcia. “Sir!” Garcia shouted. “Are you alright?”

The doctor rushed to his side, but he waved her off. “I’m fine.” He declared, already swinging his legs off the cot, determinedly ignoring how much the world was spinning. 

“You have severe malnutrition and dehydration, and lack of rest is slowing down your systems, causing you to catch a strand of the flu. You tore some of your more recent wounds back open, so we had to re-stitch, but they’re still in danger of infection, and on top of that, you may have a concussion,” the doctor, who’s name tag read Amber, informed him. “You have to stay in your bed while we check.”

Reluctantly, Hotch lay back down. He had hated hospitals since he was a child. They just meant more pain; more savage beatings and _dad, please, I just got it splinted._ At the moment, though, he just didn't have the energy to fight his way out. 

The doctor hummed in approval, then said something about supplies and strode out the door, leaving Hotch alone with Garcia. They sat in tense silence for a minute or two- Hotch wasn’t sure- before the technical analyst opened her mouth to berate him. “Garcia,” he warned, but it was half-assed and she paid it no mind.

“Don’t you ever-- do you have any idea how worried everyone is!? Passing out in the bullpen, I can’t believe you! I know you value your emotional privacy, and I get that. But to this extent? It is unacceptable!” She fumed, and slammed her sparkly purple purse down on the bedside table to emphasize her point.

Hotch stared at her for a few seconds, and hesitantly, she added “...Sir.”

“I appreciate your concern, Penelope,” Hotch finally said, letting Penelope relax, “But--”

“Shhhhhhhh!” Garcia brandished her finger at him. “Shut your pie hole. No buts, or I will tell Strauss you didn’t eat any of the apology cake she had delivered.”

Hotch suppressed a small smile for what felt like the first time in months, and mimed zipping his lips. 

“Good.” Penelope sniffed. “Now. Jack is at school right now, but he wanted to talk to you, so he gave me a sheet of things to say and to ask you.” she pulled some papers out of her pocket and shuffled through them, landing on a loose page and preparing to read off of it. “Buckle up, buttercup, because it’s about to get wild. First off; what’s the best color for trees in a coloring book?”


	2. idiocy! featuring: the team!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought about posting this on christmas but comments are like meth to me, i couldn't wait that long. 
> 
> i wrote most of this at 2 am last night while texting my friend about drag race and mothman and mothman in drag. hope it doesn't show

As Penelope continued listing off questions and frantically scribbling down his answers, the rest of the team began to file in. He’d been cleared for visitors, apparently, his concussion test coming back clean, and they were all determined to take advantage of that. Morgan situated himself at the foot of the bed, and JJ settled down in a folding chair beside Penelope. Dave brought a folding chair of his own, and sat opposite the two girls. Reid was in the corner with a stack of books, and finally Prentiss leaned against the doorframe.

“Okay. Next up is, um….” Penelope ran her finger down the paper to find the spot they left off at, having been distracted by JJ’s offer of cheetos. “What dinosaur should he bring to show and tell?”

“His triceratops.”

“Oh yeah? Not the pterodactyl?” Prentiss challenged with a smile.

“The triceratops is bigger. More likely to impress his classmates,” explained Hotch.

From his corner, without looking up from his book, Reid put in, “Bigger doesn’t always mean better, though.”

“Oho, I can think of a few instances where it does.” Garcia commented, thoroughly distracted again.

“And what are those?” JJ asked indulgently.

“Cookies.” Garcia replied. Rossi raised an eyebrow. The team looked mildly surprised. “ _And_ my men, of course,” She added, shooting Morgan a wink.

Hotch smiled fondly at their antics. He would never get tired of hearing the team laugh. Though he knew didn’t act like it, their company was always appreciated; even sought out. They made the cold, clinical hospital room fill with warmth and color. Garcia especially bled liveliness into the walls. It followed her wherever she went. It seeped into the curtains, soaked his sheets, and danced light across the smiling faces. 

It felt— good, to have them with him. The ink on Garcia’s fingers was bright pink, innocent. Cheerful and bloodless. The hollow ache in his chest was dulled. The urge to dig his fingers into his skin, to tear himself apart just to feel _something_ other than raw, was shoved to the back of his mind.

Each time Hotch started to glaze out again— staring blankly at the wall, entirely lost, never sure quite how long he had been sitting in that same position— the team would gently draw him back into their banter. 

“Ironman,” Garcia announced, “or Captain America?”

From the way his face felt strange, unfamiliarly warm and taut, Hotch knew he was smiling. “Ironman.”

JJ booed, and Morgan shook his head in clear disagreement. “Oh yeah? You’re the leader, aren’t you supposed to like the team captain better?”

“I suppose, if you take a position over personality.”

Dave let out a bark of surprised laughter, JJ oohed, and Reid’s eyebrows shot up.

“Someone’s not holding back today,” Whistled Prentiss, grinning widely. 

It suited her.

“Nuh-uh, Hotch,” Morgan said, disbelief etched in his features. “You do not get to diss _Captain America_ for not having personality when none of us know jackshit about your personal life.”

Garcia cleared her throat awkwardly and all eyes shot to her. She shifted a bit in her seat and adjusted the purple butterflies in her hair, then noticed the attention. 

“What?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “You’re totally right. None of us ever did research into teammate’s backgrounds and unearthed some definitely private things that said teammate would not want us to know. I wouldn’t-- we wouldn’t do that! Around here, in the BAU, we respect people’s privacy!”

At the team’s unimpressed stares, she relented. “Fine, okay, I did some digging and unearthed some-- some real icky icky, but that’s not important! We have to get back to the task at hand! Jackers wants to know what five times thirteen is!”

“Tell him to multiply the five times the ten and then the five times the three and add them together. It goes a lot faster than just memorization.” Hotch suggested, kindly putting her out of her misery.

“Okay. Good. One last question before we can get back to debating Irondaddy versus Captain Dreamy.” She softened. “Are you okay?”

“Please. Don’t talk about Marvel like that.” Dave pleaded, but was completely ignored by the blasphemer in question.

Hotch let his small smile stretch. “I’m fine.”

The words were instinct, reflexive, but somehow, they felt almost true. Despite being in a hospital, despite being hooked up to several machines and fed fluids through a tube in his arm, he felt safe. He felt genuine.

Hotch was released that evening, as the hospital had more dire patients that needed attention. They sent him off with strict instructions to drink three glasses of water and get at least eight hours of sleep. He was unhooked from the machines and given the clothes he was admitted in -- a black suit with a blue tie -- to change back into. Morgan drove him to his apartment, inviting himself in and confiscating all of his files before flouncing back out the door.

Well. Maybe not flouncing.

His apartment felt stingingly empty. Jack was still staying with Jess. Hotch hadn’t let him leave school to visit at the hospital, and by the time he was released, it was past Jack’s bedtime. The silence of his son’s absence pressed in on his ears. The carpet where Foyet had pinned him down glared up at him. 

There was no more blood, but the spot felt stained nonetheless. 

Unease washed over Hotch. The apartment had never been home, not really. He’d almost found himself glad when out on cases. At least he wouldn’t have to sleep in the cold, detached bedroom. It had changed when Jack moved in; now there were drawings on the walls, color in the furniture, and toys on the floor. But something still felt… off. Hotch made a mental note to settle on one of the listings he had been looking at, and soon.

There was a sudden thunk behind him, and Hotch whipped around.

It was the refrigerator. The ice machine had turned on.

Hotch clenched his jaw, willing his racing heart to slow. He spun on his heel and marched to his bedroom, annoyed with himself for being so jumpy. He had doubled security after Foyet broke in, and tripled it after Jack started staying with him again. There was nothing to be worried about.

_Not after you got Haley killed. After you made it so Jack had nowhere else to go._

He closed his bedroom door, and started peeling off his suit. It was like taking off a second skin. Hotch couldn’t help but feel vulnerable without the stiff fabric pulling at him, even with his sleepwear on and the door locked.

As he hung the suit jacket in his closet, his gaze got caught on something nestled on the top shelf.

It was Hayley’s comb. The blue one. The one she would use in the mornings before breakfast, quietly cursing when it got stuck in her tangles. The one she would use after her afternoon run. The one she would use after sex.

Hotch had never particularly liked sex. He hadn’t understood why it was such a seemingly important part of relationships, and he had never sought it out. It had made him feel broken, like there was something wrong with him, even more than he had when his father had caught him kissing a boy behind the shed in ninth grade. In college, when all his friends were trying to get him to hook up, incredulous when he said he didn’t want to, he had hated himself for it. 

But in the fading rays of sunlight at dusk, when the light made a halo of her messy hair, he thought he might understand. When her back arched, and her quiet but harsh breathing was the only sound in the muted glow of evening, he thought he might understand. When his name fell softly from her lips, and she moaned through that breathy laugh of hers, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch, run his fingers over her soft skin, just to make sure that someone this breathtaking and ethereal and gorgeous was really there, really his-- he thought he might understand. It wasn't about pleasure.

Hotch blinked, and realized he had glazed out again. He had no idea how long he had been standing there. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 10:45. He had been staring blankly into his closet thinking about his dead wife-- dead ex-wife-- for at least thirty minutes.  
He wandered to his bedside, still a little dazed. He wished that wouldn’t happen so often. 

He wished he could talk to Jack.

_What, so you can hurt him more than you already have? You’re just like your father. He hates you for what you did to him._

Hotch buried his face in his hands and sat down hard on the edge of his bed. Maybe Garcia was right. He really should go see a therapist. He couldn’t keep delaying the team and his work with his long glazed over spaces. He couldn’t keep being such an absent father. He couldn’t keep relying so much on Jess, it wasnt fair to her.

_Not after you killed her sister._

He stared at his phone on his dresser. He could feel sweat starting to creep along his back, and his breath was coming in short gasps. He knew the signs. Experience from when he was a teenager, choking back sobs in a bathroom stall, had taught him well. He was having a panic attack.  
His phone was only three feet away, facedown and silent. He could reach it in seconds. He could call someone. Ask for help before he spiraled again. That was the first step, right?

_Pathetic._

Who would he even call? Dave? Jess? Morgan? He couldn’t do that to them. They didn’t deserve to have to pretend to care about him over a phone call. He wouldn’t put them through the obligation to act as if they weren’t disgusted by him. 

His hands were trembling hard enough that he didn’t think he could even hold the phone long enough for a call either way.

 _You’re a grown man and you’re freaking out because you happened to see a comb? Weak. Pathetic._ Broken. _Maybe Hayley’s better off dead. She doesn’t have to deal with you anymore. ___

____

__

Hotch stood up sharply. He wouldn’t allow himself to break down. It hadn’t even been that bad of a day. Even though he was in a hospital, surrounded with the sterile smell he so hated for its associations with his childhood, it had a mostly jovial mood throughout. The team had stayed by his side. He hadn’t felt like a burden. There was no reason for him to suddenly be so upset.

_Weak._

He ran his hand through his hair and turned sharply back to the bed, almost throwing himself onto it. He climbed resolutely under the covers.  
He would go to sleep. He would go to sleep, and he wouldn’t let himself break down, and he would wake up in the morning, and he wouldn’t be so delicate.

_Weak. Weak. WeakweakweakweakWEAK_

With shuddering breaths and his eyes squeezed shut to keep the tears in, Aaron lay awake until sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man, he was so close to asking for help. goddamn voice in his head, smh
> 
> anyway heres the explicitly ace hotch content that we all* wanted
> 
> *me. it was me. i wanted this

**Author's Note:**

> i crave feedback. with feedback i can make my writing less cringe.
> 
> everyone who commented on this fic i am so in love with you


End file.
